Thundercracker's Fate
by Miratete
Summary: Chapter 6: "A Rude Awakening" posted. After waking up in his new frame, Thundercracker is first hacked for information by Red Alert and Jazz, and then delivered to Ratchet's quarters to become the medic's new toy. Warning: Possible domestic violence triggers in this chapter.
1. Games We Play

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 1: Games We Play**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Thundercracker poured another round of drinks. No, they couldn't just sip out of cubes. They had to be served. In fact Perceptor had converted some of the glassware in his laboratory in to vessels specifically for them to drink from, and for their new toy to fill.

As he leaned past Jetfire to fill his glass from the pitcher, the big shuttle looked up from his hand of cards and smiled at him. And it wasn't a leering smile, not like the ones a lot of the other Autobots gave him, but a genuine smile, full of warmth.

But he did not return it. Although Jetfire had already won two of the "wax and buff" chits that didn't mean he had to be particularly kind to the one who would be demanding his services later.

As he moved on and refilled Ratchet's glass, the medic's hand slipped absently to his aft, as it so often did. The Autobot CMO seemed to have a thing for petting him on the rump. And he was petting right now, the fingers slapping it gently before sliding down the back of his thighs. He looked down at the cards in his owner's spread wondering if he had anything good. But he only had a pair of nines. Wheeljack would win this round. The insane inventor had a straight.

Thundercracker moved on to top-off Huffer's glass. And when he reached for it, the whiny little engineer grinned up at him, and unlike Jetfire's smile, this was one of the leering ones. Of course, stashed away securely in a pocket was a chit for an interface with the Decepticon, one of two issued by Ratchet that night. Huffer had won it by bluffing his way with only two pair. Getting fragged by the minibot would be nothing more than a nuisance, provided the minibot kept his vocalizer quiet. Having to listen to Huffer go on and on about everything that was wrong in his pathetic life, as much as Thundercracker might agree with him, that would be agonizing. If he could have chosen, he would have much rather Jetfire had won that prize and the other. Despite all the hateful things that Starscream spouted about the shuttle-former, his trinemate had plenty of good things to say when he was happily overcharged on energon, not the least of which was Jetfire's particularly capable skill in the berth.

Sunday was the night the Autobot scientists, medics, and engineers got together in the main science laboratory and played poker on even numbered days and played rollback on the odd ones. About midnight the games would cease and they'd sit about drinking and chatting or watching holo-vids until they either fell over or fell into recharge. Wheeljack, Ratchet, Perceptor, Huffer, and Jetfire were the core group at these little gatherings, but sometimes someone else would show up or come as a guest of another. Grapple and Hoist never missed a rollback night.

A human male they called Sparkplug sometimes showed up as well, and he was there tonight, sitting on the table next to Huffer, partly hidden behind his fan of cards. When Ratchet announced that he would be gambling with chits for Thundercracker's services in lieu of cash, two of which were good for an interface, the others had all teased the human about what he would do if he managed to win any of them. "Sell or trade them," he'd announced. "It's not like I can use a wax and polish, or a circuit rub, or … or... Have you seen that interfacing equipment? I'm not getting my John Thomas anywhere near that thing!" Thundercracker had given him a bitter look. Stupid fleshlings.

And now Thundercracker was refilling the drink of the human, an amber-colored organic liquid containing about 40% alcohol. The human did not look at him, but did mumble a small thank you.

The final player at the table was Grapple, the architect. He was terrible at both poker and rollback, but he probably enjoyed losing as much as he would have enjoyed winning. He came for the company and support of his fellow intellectuals. Though tonight he actually seemed to be concentrating harder on the game, seeing the spoils that would go to the winner. And while he usually consumed more energon than the others, enjoying getting overcharged well before midnight, tonight he was holding back.

The round ended with Wheeljack claiming the pot as predicted, but not the delicious prize still in Ratchet's possession. Huffer bowed out despite the encouragement to remain in the game. "I've got what I want," he grinned, flashing the data stick and rolling it between his fingers.

At that moment there came a knock on the door.

"It's open!" hollered Wheeljack.

The wide doors slid apart and Optimus Prime and Jazz entered.

Thundercracker tensed. Whether it was in battle or during a truce, the sight of the Autobot Commander always had that effect on him as well as most of the Decepticons.

The Autobots at the table rose. "What's up Prime?" Ratchet asked.

"At ease. We just came down to join you tonight if you wouldn't mind."

"I heard there was some interesting currency on the table tonight," Jazz grinned. "Any chance you could deal me in?" He immediately took the seat vacated by Huffer. His visor was clearly aimed across the room at Thundercracker.

Thundercracker's shoulders sagged. Ratchet had exchanged his services before, but this was the first time he'd allowed for an interface. His owner had finally given in to the requests to whore him out. At least it was only for two counts. Apparently the medic needed Earth currency to purchase something from the humans, and was counting on luck to win it from the others.

The others laughed. "Only if you have something to gamble with."

Jazz reached into a subspace pocket and withdrew a few tidily bundled stacks of paper bills. "I think I do." And then he looked back over his shoulder. "Optimus, get over here. You're playing too."

"Only if there's a place. I don't want to intrude," he said tactfully.

The others at the table all made room for him, and Jazz halved his cash and pushed it in front of the prime as he sat down. The Autobots played with human money, sent in regular installments by the federal government, which came in useful at times when there actually was something they wanted from the humans.

Ratchet nodded at Thundercracker, who fetched a couple of glasses, filled them with high grade, and set them before the newcomers. He couldn't help but feel the glare of their blue optics upon him as he worked. Thankfully most of the Autobots usually weren't too grabby and didn't grope him too often. Though occasionally he would get bumped or crowded when there was an opportunity.

As he returned to his station he accidentally caught a glimpse of himself in the set of mirrors used in some of the experiments. As always, he held back from smashing them in order to destroy his reflection. His hated reflection. He loathed what Wheeljack and Ratchet had done to him. How they had taken away his identity and made him into something weak and pointless. Inside he was still Thundercracker. Outside... he was pathetic. They'd stripped away everything that defined him and replaced it with nothing at all like the powerful seeker he'd once been.

Now he was just their little slave. Their plaything. A servant cursed with muteness and a frail frame.

Once again he fought back the sorrow. Countless tears had fallen over his fate as their prisoner.

Perceptor and Beachcomber, having been chatting at length over geology in another corner of the room, were intrigued by the appearance of their leader and third-in-command, and so came over to watch the game.

Cards were dealt. Grapple and Sparkplug dropped out. Beachcomber jumped in. Several rounds were played without much action. But on a particular hand, when Ratchet smirked and bet the other interface chit, cooling fans began to whir.

This was it. This would be the final game of the evening.

Huffer was eagerly eyeing Thundercracker again, imagining everything he would do to the Decepticon's delicious frame once he had it in his berth. His fingers again rolled the precious data stick between them.

When it was called, Grapple excitedly lay down a full house, and the others congratulated him. The yellow mech was grinning, his efforts and luck having come together to win a prize he'd quite enjoy.

At least until Optimus spread out four aces and the three of spades.

Grapple's head dipped in sorrow as the congratulations were turned toward Optimus. A message suddenly pinged on his systems from Wheeljack. ::Sympathies. If you wouldn't mind second prize, I'd be happy to let you take me home tonight.:: The architect looked up to see that the engineer was glancing over at him. ::I'm not as pretty as Citrine, but my equipment's just as good.::

Well, Wheeljack wasn't a femme, but he was a mech with some serious credentials in the berth. ::Second prize sounds great.:: he sent back.

Optimus was astounded by his luck. Joining the game had been Jazz's idea when the message had come up from Beachcomber as to what Ratchet had laid on the table. And admittedly he had been rather intrigued by the prospect of an interface with Ratchet's gorgeous slave. Apparently only her owner and his co-conspirator had been the only ones to touch her so far. But to have actually beaten out the competition for the pleasure of taking her back to his berth... "So when can I use this?" he asked, taking the data stick in his hand.

"Anytime you want," answered Ratchet.

"Like now?"

Ratchet laughed and pulled the lithe femme over to his side. "Citrine would love to go home with you right now." He turned his head and smirked wickedly at her. "Isn't that right, Citrine."

Thundercracker wanted to slap the smirk right off of the CMO's face. But instead he nodded obediently. If the Prime wanted to frag him now, best to just get it over with.

"I should probably give her a full security scan first. She was a Decepticon, after all," said Jazz.

If he still had his voice, Thundercracker would have defiantly stated that he was still a Decepticon. But one too many comments like that had led to their removal of his vocalizer.

Jetfire, gathering up the cards on the table, lifted his eyes to the femme. "And Citrine, if Jazz tells you that using his spike is the way we Autobots do security scans, it's completely true."

The others chuckled at the large white jet's rare moment of teasing humor.

"It is. Red Alert will back me up on this." Jazz smirked famously. He looked up to and waved at the camera in the corner of the room. "Right, Red?" Ever since the broken frame of the nearly dead Thundercracker had been dragged unceremoniously back to the Ark the security officer had been a nervous mess. At least his new form was exceedingly easy on the optics and gave some pleasure to the ongoing surveillance.

Optimus Prime stood and handed the data stick to Ratchet. "In that case, I hope you won't mind me taking my leave and redeeming this now. And here..." He pushed the money to the center of the table. "I understand you need copper wire from the humans. Keep it."

Ratchet smiled. "Thank you, Optimus. I just ask that you have her cleaned up and home by 8:00 tomorrow. She's on duty in the medbay then."

Optimus turned to where Citrine was standing at the counter where the high grade was kept. She was refilling the pitcher and setting an arrangement of mineral goodies onto plates, purposely avoiding the gazes.

"Citrine? Ready to go?" he asked.

Thundercracker sighed. The prime really meant to have him. So much for the rumors going about the Nemesis that the Autobot leader was so hung up on Elita-One that he'd not interfaced with anyone since leaving Cybertron.

Thundercracker nodded, wiped his hands on a towel, and moved on leaden feet to the Prime's outstretched hand.

Optimus escorted the femme out of the door amid cheers of goodbye and jeers of wishing him good luck. Jazz went to follow, but was dismissed. "I think I can handle her," he said confidently.

"Well I'm just a comm' away if you need any help. _Any_ sort of _help_..."

"I'll let you know," he said, grinning behind his mask.

And as Optimus Prime led him through the halls of the Ark, leading him back to his quarters, Thundercracker wondered how this could have ever happened to him. Three deca-cycles ago he had been one of the Decepticon elite trine—Starscream's right hand mech. Now he was the beautiful femme frag-toy for the Autobot CMO and his cronies.

-o-o-o-o-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 2: "Coming On-Line"**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Author Notes:**

 **Chapter Order** – The chapters in this story are not in chronological order. Instead they skip around to unfold the events in a more dramatic fashion. Chronologically they belong in this order: 3-4-2-6-1-5

 **Slavery** – I've read lots of slavery stories in which the Autobots are the abused property of victorious Decepticons, but there are very few in which the Autobots are the masters, and they're usually portrayed as being rather benevolent. In this one, I wanted to portray a situation in which the Autobots' keeping of a Decepticon is a little less than wholesome. Thundercracker, while neither beaten nor violently treated, is subject to the whim of his masters and is very much treated as property. His labor and services are theirs for the taking.

 **Warning** – This will turn slightly sticky in later chapters (when Optimus gets Thundercracker/Citrine back to his quarters in chapter 5) and will be bumped up to an M rating.


	2. Coming Online

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 2: Coming Online**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Thundercracker came online to find the Autobot CMO hovering over his chest and the CMO's assistant peering into his optics. "He's awake!" cried the latter enthusiastically.

Ratchet moved quickly up toward Thundercracker's head, only to scowl as the seeker went back offline.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He onlined again to find Ratchet there as before, arms in what was left of the seeker's chest up to his elbows. And instead of the white visored and masked mech, a dark green one, also with a visor and mask, had replaced him. "Hold him, Hoist. Keep that feed live," barked Ratchet. "I'm not sure if I can. He's a mess in here."

"Doing my best, Sir. But these fluctuations..."

Ratchet moved up again to the head of the seeker. "Thundercracker, I need you to access your..."

-o-o-o-o-o-

The third time he woke, he found four Autobots huddled over his frame... if one could still call it a frame. He'd been ignoring the messages crackling through his processor. He didn't really want to know how badly he'd been damaged. Getting stepped on by Superion should really have off-lined him permanently.

"Keep him steady, Hoist," the CMO was growling. "Watch those high field sines."

If his vocalizer had been working, Thundercracker would probably have been groaning. Ratchet was banging on his spark chamber with some unknown tool.

"I'm loosing him..." whimpered the dark green Autobot.

"Hold him, Hoist. You can do it."

"Ratchet, he's too damaged," groused one of the others. "There's a reason the Decepticons left him for dead."

-o-o-o-o-o-

"This is the problem, Optimus," First Aid stated. He's been so damaged we can't keep him on-line. His processor keeps shutting down to protect him."

"If we can just transfer his spark and processors to another frame, even just temporarily, Red Alert should be able to hack him," continued Ratchet.

"Then do so. Do we have any spare frames? Or something that would work? Wheeljack, what'cha got?"

Wheeljack shook his head. "No spare frames lying about."

"What about in your lab on Cybertron?"

"Not even in my lab on Cybertron."

"Well could something be built?"

"Not easily. We're low on parts and frame components," explained Ratchet. "Most of what we had was used in reformatting the crew and repairs since. This war has been expensive in medical terms."

"I suppose we could go back to Cybertron and find a frame," mused Wheeljack, crossing his arms over his chest. "Plenty of bodies lying about there."

First Aid jumped in. "If we could find a volunteer who would be willing to give up his frame for the duration of the interrogation..."

"Shall I put out a request for a volunteer? The transfer would just be temporary, wouldn't it?" Optimus asked.

"I suppose we could do that, but I don't know of anyone in this crew that's enough of a masochist to allow a Decepticon to take over his frame and then allow it to get hacked."

"Well, we'll see if we can get a volunteer. If not, we'll send a team to Cybertron to collect some empty frames."

"All right Prime, but the sooner the better. We're not sure how long we can maintain Thundercracker's spark before he gives up."

The Autobot leader nodded, and Wheeljack and Ratchet left the office, First Aid rushing ahead. And on reaching his office next to the medbay. Ratchet paused, his hand hovering over the entry panel. "You know, Wheeljack, we do have a spare frame lying about."

"Oh? Wait, not that hideous thing Sparkplug put together. That would serve Thundercracker right," the engineer chuckled. And then he shook his head again, remembering the fiasco that had been. "I suppose we could though."

"Not that thing. I'm talking about Madame Ratchet. She's good to go."

Wheeljack rubbed his chin. "I'd forgotten about her. Of course." And then he shook his head. "Bahhh! She's too good for him."

"I've had her all these vorns and have never done anything with her or her parts. And at this rate we might as well just use her."

"Citrine's much too good for him. She's still sealed and all."

"I know. Not like we were using her for anything else though."

"Seems a waste, but if you're sure."

"Maybe it's time we started using her. Besides, if we put him into Citrine, we'll have no end of volunteers to help with the interrogations and guard duty."

Wheeljack laughed. "I knew there was a reason you were my best friend."

-o-o-o-o-o-

When Thundercracker woke again, things had definitely changed. There were no warning messages. The medbay was calm and quiet. Only the white medical assistant was visible.

He felt drowsy... disconnected. And the messages coming through his processor were coded in blue rather than red. Glancing at them, they were cheery welcome messages from his new frame.

His new frame?

The white medic was leaning over him looking into his optics. And then the medic pushed up his visor and looked more closely. "I think he's stable," he said with a tone of delight in his voice.

"He's holding," came the voice of the dark green medic from nearby.

Ratchet appeared and leaned over his head. "Thundercracker? Can you hear me?" he asked.

He could hear, but why should he respond to the Autobot's question.

"Thundercracker? Can you hear me?" he asked more insistently.

"Yeah... I can hear you," he mumbled bitterly.

The others excitedly laughed and actually appeared to bounce around a bit in joy. Great.

"You just missed a narrow scrape with Mortilus, but we managed to keep him at bay. So welcome back."

"Thanks..." Thundercracker grumped. He wondered if he should see why he was getting new frame messages. The last time he'd seen them was when he'd been reformatted after the Autobot's Ark had awoken after six octads of dormancy on this miserable planet.

"How are you feeling?" Hoist asked.

"Strange. What have you done to me?" His voice sounded different as well he noticed. Its depth and rumble was gone.

"We had to put you into a new frame. Yours was so damaged that we couldn't keep you on-line, no matter what we tried."

"You should have just given me back to the Decepticons."

"Eh. They didn't want you. They left you for dead after Superion stomped on you. And then Menasor fell on top of you when Superion knocked him over."

Thundercracker sighed. Talk about adding insult to injury. "You should have just left me as well," he huffed. "What's my new frame? Whose hand-me-down body did you put me in?" Well that explained the difference in his vocalizer.

"We didn't have any vacated frames..." said a new voice. "But we did have something mostly suitable sitting in Ratchet's closet."

Thundercracker turned his optics to see the infamous mad-scientist Wheeljack coming over to the group. "Mostly suitable?" Great. What had the nutcase done to him? Reformatted him into some dreadfully domestic Earth machine?

"And it looks great on you," he cackled.

A bit of panic set in. Had they put him into that hideous mish-mash of parts they called a frame, the one Megatron had tried to seduce to the Decepticon cause when they found it to be sentient? Or had they put him into some piece of laboratory machinery? He reached out through his frame, and found it to be at least a normal Cybertronian shape. Though he could not find any transformation cogs or transformation commands in it. "What have you done to me? What did you put me into?"

The Autobots laughed and held him down as he began to fight the light restraints keeping him on the medberth.

"Shhhh... shhhh. Easy there, Thundercracker," said Hoist soothingly. "Stop struggling and I'll show you."

"What am I? What sort of monstrosity have you dross-prossed idiots made me into?!"

"Shhh... Calm down," said Hoist. "Let me help you."

Thundercracker looked down to see the dark green mech was unbinding one of his hands.

Hands. At least he had hands.

But not his own, or anything like his own. The hand the doctor was releasing was slender and silver, decorated with pale yellow bands and set into an arm of a rusty-gold tone with glass-enameled turquoise blue highlights.

"What the...?" He pulled the hand closer to his optics and stared. "This is... What hand is this!?"

Hoist took it gently and stroked it. "It's yours now."

"It looks like a femme's hand," he hissed.

"It is a femme's hand," said Ratchet, leaning in. The chief medic had finally appeared.

"Welcome to your new frame," chuckled Wheeljack sadistically.

-o-o-o-o-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 3: "The Toshers"**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Author Notes:**

 **Chapter Order** – The chapters in this story are not in chronological order. Instead they skip around to unfold the events in a more dramatic fashion.

 **Wheeljack** – I love writing him a few screws loose, and being unashamed about it. And I am trying to make the Autobots in this story a little rougher—not the goody two-shoes versions of the canon.

.


	3. The Toshers

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 3: The Toshers**

-o-o-o-o-o-

"W-We need h-help!" cried the mech—a pitiful dark brown figure, stooped and heavily tarnished. Against his shoulder was a second mech, supported by him and a third.

The guards at the gate goggled. The second one was unconscious and bleeding transfluid, lubricant, and energon. All three of the strangers were heavily scorched by weapon fire.

"Oh my goodness!" gasped Blastshield. He'd worked many gate shifts, and was accustomed to seeing the miserable inhabitants of the nearby bombed-out city come begging for fuel or medical charity, but none had been brought over in this bad of a state.

"This isn't a public hospital. Take him elsewhere," snapped Hardline, coming over to see who had appeared at the gate of the Autobot camp.

"It w-was your b-battle that did this t-to him. And th-there aren't any h-hospitals around h-here," stuttered the first.

Hardline folded his arms over his chest. There had been a confrontation not too far away earlier that day—two patrol groups had met and a firefight had ensued. Everyone knew that this was a war zone. Any damage was their fault for not getting out of the way.

"Please, if you can just stabilize him, we can handle the rest of the repairs," pleaded the third in a deep gravelly voice. He was the largest of the three, but had the same tarnished brown appearance and hunched over posture. In his free hand were clutched three hoe-like implements on long handles.

"This is an Autobot installation. Not a charity ward for Empties. Leave!" was Hardline's misanthropic response.

The first was undeterred. "B-But it was Autobot f-fire that h-hit him. Or th-the r-retaliation fire of the D-Decepticons"

"Please, in the name of Primus, have a little sympathy for your fellow Cybertronians," the large one again pleaded.

"W-We didn't want this w-war, and yet you've b-brought it upon us. And w-we're not Empties!" snapped the first, annoyed by the cold attitude of the Autobot gate commander.

From inside the camp, a white ground-shuttle suddenly zoomed up and unfolded into the form of the head medic. "I'm told there's a dying mech out here," he said on straightening. Though as soon as he asked he spotted the terribly damaged stranger held up by two others.

Hardline glared at his guard unit. One of them had to have pinged Ratchet. Someone would be suffering extra duty later when the call was traced.

Ratchet immediately went toward the bleeding mech and motioned for the other two to lay him down. "Pull him off to the side. Open his chest," he barked, and they did so.

A second ground-shuttle appeared and halted next to the first, unfolding into Ratchet's second, an accelerated mech who'd gone from being a racer to an overwound medic. Torque was known for his speed in closing off broken lines. And if more than closing off broken lines was called for, he was regularly breaking records, usually his own, in getting injured mechs back to the field hospital where he could perform serious repairs.

"I must protest. This could be a Decepticon trap!" Hardline snarled.

"You're right," Ratchet responded, his hands already at work inside the chest of the injured stranger sealing fluid lines to stop the bleeding. "Or it could be a dying mech."

Hardline sneered. These soft-hearted medics.

Torque moved in and began to assist Ratchet, three hands and a welder attachment now at work on the bleeding. "You're toshers, aren't you?" Ratchet asked, scowling as he scraped a layer of crud off of a hose connector before Torque moved in with his welder.

"Y-Yes. S-Sorry."

"It's all right. Just takes us longer as we have to keep cleaning as we go. And I'll probably have to redo a number of these patches once I've got him stabilized, because of contamination."

"J-Just get him st-stabilized. Th-that's all we ask. Tosher s-self-repair s-systems and nanites are strong and w-will t-take care of the r-rest.," said the first. Ratchet was unsure if the stutter was a defect in his vocalizer or just nervousness at work. "W-We can p-pay you something f-for it." He opened up a piece of mesh onto the ground next to the prone mech, revealing it to be full of coins, data chips, and nuggets of more valuable metals. None of the contents were very valuable in and of themselves, but as a whole they had some worth.

Ratchet glanced over at the money, and then looked up at the two heavily discolored mechs, their appearances bearing witness to the unsavory work conditions they endured. "Do you ever come up with copper or copper wire down there?"

"W-We do, on oc-occasion."

"I could use some—always need it. Mind finding me some?"

"We should be able to..." The large tosher put his hand upon Ratchet's shoulder.

"Do so. Leave your friend with me. Bring me back as much copper as you can get a hold of. Come back tomorrow afternoon."

"C-Copper. C-Copper wire. All r-right." The stuttering mech folded up the mesh and tucked it into a storage bin conveniently built into his chest. Thanking Ratchet exuberantly, the two toshers left.

Ratchet nodded at Torque. "Let's get him into my shop. We'll do better there."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Once the critical damage to the tosher was seen to and the continuation of his life was no longer in question, instead of bringing him online, Ratchet summoned Greenburst.

The femme came immediately to his call. She was a neutral, but as Ratchet's favorite pleasurebot, she was allowed into the camp provided she had been summoned. "I've got a big job for you, sweets," he said.

"Oh?" She smiled seductively. "Need an extra-long bath? Extra-deep circuit rub?" The shutters over her green eyes, imitations of eyelids on organic creatures, blinked slowly... suggestively.

"I do, but not for me."

"Hmmm?"

"It's not going to be pleasant work, and you'll actually have to work hard. But I'll pay you double, and I'm going to be helping you."

"Oh? What exactly will I be doing?"

"Someone brought in a tosher a few cycles ago. I need him cleaned up before I can do much more with him."

"A tosher?" Her face fell.

"I know. If you don't need the money, there are others who do..." As the war had dragged on, ready cash had become far more scarce.

She vented. "I'll do it."

"Thank you." Ratchet led her to the washracks where Torque had taken the body on a gurney, and wheeling it into a washbay, Ratchet hung the showerhead over it, setting the spout for a slow, steady flow.

Greenburst grimaced as Ratchet began detaching armor plates.

"I know," smiled Ratchet on seeing her reaction. "It's not exactly the glamorous job of polishing up an officer. But I appreciate you coming."

Ratchet and Greenburst began to scrub away the deposits of filth that had built up inside of the mech, layers of grime that had sedimented into areas away from moving parts where they could accumulate undisturbed. Torque looked on, noting further repairs that needed to be made. "So what's a tosher? Why's he so filthy?" he asked in time.

"A scavenger that works the sewers. It's disgusting and often dangerous work. But it's better than being an Empty."

"Well that explains the smell."

"So why are you working on a tosher? Or are the Autobots that desperate for troops," Greenburst asked, her lovely frame now well-flecked with splashes of dirt that had sprayed from their brushes.

"Good karma. This one was hurt in the crossfire of a battle."

"I see."

Several cycles later, the tosher actually looked clean. Not pretty, but clean. His paint could be seen to have once been a lovely luminous red, but was now much scratched, pitted, and simply worn away in places. And more than that he was clean inside. Returning him to the medbay, Jetty and Whipstar, Ratchet's newest interns, were given the list of needed repairs that Torque had compiled. He paid Greenburst as promised, and immediately hired her again to help clean him off. "I'll be gone a few cycles," he said. "Shouldn't be anything you three can't handle. And if you can't, just wait for me to get back, because I won't be answering any comm's for the next three cycles either, unless it's Optimus fraggin' Prime himself." With that, he opened the door, gestured Greenburst out, and followed after her with a tired smile.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The next day, Ratchet brought the tosher online—a clean, fully repaired mech, and he began to check over Jetty and Whipstar's work.

"So what's your name?" he asked the tosher as he tested an ankle joint by manipulating it in his hands. It had been found to be barely movable in the course of the previous day's examination, but now—cleaned, repaired, and lubricated—it was nearly as good as new.

"My name's Duster. Where am I?"

"The Autobot camp, in the medical ward. A couple of your buddies brought you in yesterday."

Duster's head fell. "There was a battle. We couldn't escape it like we're usually able to."

"You barely escaped death. You were leaking transfluid and energon pretty badly when they brought you in."

"Who brought me in? Chunk and Stellaris?"

"I didn't catch their names. A big guy and a guy with a stutter to his vocalizer."

"That would be them." And then he lay back and sighed. "I'm glad they survived," he said with certain relief int the tone of his voice. "I wasn't sure that any of us would for a while there."

Ratchet moved on to examine the areas where he'd stopped the bleeding the day before. "We've patched you up and made a lot of repairs. You had a lot of damage... old and new."

"Yeah. It's a tough life these days. And... you've cleaned me." He held up his arm and studied it. "I've lost my patina," he sighed. "The others aren't going to let me live this down."

"We washed so much dirt out of you, you probably weigh half of what you did when you came in."

"Probably," he chuckled. "And the patina will come back. It's a mark of pride for a tosher, you know, that rusty-brown cast that builds up. Shows you know your job and are good at it."

Ratchet gave him a look. "I'm sure it won't take long. But for now, you're repaired, clean, and smell a whole lot nicer than you have for what I imagine is quite some time."

Duster lifted his left arm and bent his elbow. "You even fixed that tick in my left upper-arm servo."

"I did that," beamed Whipstar. She'd been standing quietly to the side waiting for instructions from the CMO.

"Thank you," he said graciously, nodding to the intern.

"Your buddies will be coming back later for you, but until then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you over to our intelligence office," Ratchet stated, folding his arms over his chest.

"For what?" Duster's easy-going smile had turned into an expression of nervousness.

"Whatever information you can provide us on Decepticon activity in the area. Think of it as paying for the work we've done on you."

"I don't have much to say. We don't see other mechs down in the sewers, besides other toshers. But I can report on the battle we got caught in, and anything we saw there."

"That will help. Whatever you can give them." He patted Duster on the arm. "Get up and I'll take you over there now."

-o-o-o-o-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 4: "Something Beautiful"**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Author Notes:**

 **Time Setting –** I set this chapter (and the next) at some mid-point of the war. Ratchet has not been assigned to Optimus Prime's immediate command yet, but he has established himself as a top-end medic and is in charge of repair operations at a significant base.

 **Toshers –** appeared in London in the 1600's and were around until law forbid their trade in the mid-1800's. They combed the sewers and closed-in rivers beneath the streets, scavenging for lost articles of value. Wading through the filthy water and using a hoe-like implement as both a probe and a digging tool, they found coins and still useful articles, which could be sold in many of the city's markets. The work was dangerous, and toshers rarely worked alone. Rats, flooding, and cave-ins were the greatest threat to their lives, but the money (apparently being above average for a poor man) kept them working in such obviously dark, smelly, and dirty conditions. According to them, the unsanitary environment only strengthened them against disease and infirmity.

I've tried to incorporate much of this into the story, adding in the idea that a mech working down in the sewers would built up a patina on his plating that would eventually replace their original paint. And the reason for their appearance in this story will become obvious in the next chapter.


	4. Something Beautiful

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 4: Something Beautiful**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet found himself with a huge pile of copper wire and random pieces of the metal later that day when Duster's friends returned, which he sent immediately to the machine shop's smelter to be reprocessed for his needs in the medbay. And the three toshers gave as much information to the intelligence office as they could. Afterward, they were escorted back to the medbay, and at Ratchet's insistence the medical team did a round of maintenance and repairs on Stellaris and Chunk. The toshers had not expected this additional kindness, but for it they were completely thankful. And the following day, also at Ratchet's insistence, they brought back two other toshers who were in dire need of some work as well.

-o-o-o-o-o-

A few days later the three were back again, without an invitation but set upon seeing Ratchet. "W-We have a g-gift for h-him," said Stellaris, patting the large crate they'd brought to the gate of the base.

"A gift?"

"Yeah. Just something we want to give him. He was so good to us, and went to a lot of trouble for us. He even hired a washbot to clean me up," said Duster, grinning broadly.

"You needed cleaning," Hardline sneered. "So what's in the box?"

"Just a little present for him."

"Scan that thing," Hardline commanded.

The three tensed.

"P-Please. It's t-to be a s-secret, just for h-him," sais Stellaris, putting his arms protectively across the top of the crate.

"A secret?" Hardline glared at them. The Decepticons had yet to breach his gate. "Open it!" he commanded the three toshers.

"But we're giving it to Ratchet."

"Open it now!"

"No explosives, but there's a body inside," called back the mech with the security scanner.

"A body?"

"Yeah. Scan shows one body."

Hardline advanced on the lead tosher. "A body? What's the meaning of this?"

Duster drew himself up out of his usual stooped posture and was suddenly standing optic to optic with Hardline. "Ratchet, your CMO, has been so good to us. He's been taking care of us. You know that. We brought him a gift to pay him for everything he's done."

"Open that crate!"

The toshers did so disappointedly, having been looking forward to watching Ratchet himself open their present. And when the lid came off, they pulled open an inner casing, a fine box of stainless steel, to reveal an amber-yellow femme lying inside, held into stasis cradles by several cables wrapped with sparkling ribbon. Reverently they pulled the hood from her head, at which all present gasped. Even Hardline was speechless.

"Oh my goodness! You're giving Ratchet a femme?" asked Blastshield, still Hardline's second-in-command despite having been found to be the one who'd summoned Ratchet when the dying tosher had been brought in.

"Yeah. Well, sort of. It's just a frame, a frame for an upgrade or something. No spark inside."

Blastshield stepped up and reached for one of the femme's hands, encased in a mitten of the same fabric as the hood. "Where did you find her?" he asked, sliding off the mitt and admiring the thin, delicate appendage. "Look at these joints. These joints are amazing!" he declared, bending her fingers to curl about his own.

"We found her in the sewers, like everything else we find."

"We didn't steal her," huffed Chunk indignantly in his deep voice, "if that's what you're thinking."

"And you're giving her to him?" Blastshield asked.

"We thought he might have someone special he might want to reformat. That's what she's for... a new frame for a sparkling or someone special."

"And she's too good for us. Far too delicate."

"Far too pretty," mumbled a voice from the back.

Hardline was still amazed but managed to find his voice. "I've called Ratchet. He'll be here at the gate soon."

"Oh my goodness! Would you sell her?" asked Blastshield quickly, stepping up to Stellaris. "I've got a bit of money tucked away."

Stellaris shook his head. "N-Nope. We're g-giving her to Ratchet. B-But maybe h-he'll sell her to you. It's up to h-him what he w-wants to d-do with her."

Blastshield looked again at the lovely femme, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, an unusual mix of amber-yellow plating and glass-like aqua-blue detailing. "I'll pay you in gold. I have it."

"S-Sorry. We've m-made our d-decision. And we t-toshers are stubborn f-folk," said the mech with a certain pride.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Ratchet was impressed by the gift, knowing this to probably be the finest, most valuable thing the toshers had ever salvaged. They'd found the frame in its packaging beneath the ruins of a ritzy high-rise where once the finest mechs in the city had lived. From what they'd been able to tell, the purchaser had tucked the never-used body into safekeeping beneath the building, hopefully to hide it until the end of the war when such lovely things were safe to have again. But the war hadn't ended and the entire neighborhood had been bombed out, and the toshers had done well scavenging the broken sewers beneath, despite the risks of cave-ins.

"Have you named her?" Ratchet asked.

"We've been calling her Citrine, for her color."

"She's very beautiful, and certainly quite valuable. This is some magnificent workmanship." He paused and looked at the three again. "Are you really sure you want to give her to me?"

"Y-You've done so m-much f-for us, Ratchet," Stellaris assured him. "You s-saved a l-life and so much m-more."

"You know you can sell a frame like that for a lot of money. It's yours legally by salvage law. I've already received two messages from one of the mechs here. He wants to buy her from either you or me."

Duster laughed. "The big burnt-red fellow at the gate?"

Ratchet nodded, and Duster shook his head. "He asked us as well, but we're giving her to you. Someday perhaps there will be someone in your life that would like such frame." His optics rolled over to Jetty, whom they'd noticed the CMO had a certain fondness for over the course of their dealings with the medical staff. The intern, not missing the insinuation, coughed and turned away with some embarrassment.

"Well thank you very much," he said. He was used to the gratitude of those whose lives he'd saved, and he'd often been gifted small services and black-market high-grade. But no gift had ever been as valuable as what these scavengers were presenting him with. "You're all very kind. And perhaps someday there will be someone... a sparkling or a bondmate maybe."

The three toshers were smiling happily. "We hope there will," they said nearly in unison. For once Stellaris did not stutter.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The beautiful frame sat unused in Ratchet's office for ages, his favorite decoration. When he was eventually assigned to Optimus Prime's unit, he'd struck up a close friendship with the nutty engineer the Autobot leader kept around to work on weapons and solve problems. Wheeljack dubbed Citrine "Madame Ratchet," and often treated her as if she were already alive. He'd ask her permission for certain things, or let her know that her bondmate would be away for several orns on a mission or expedition. He'd flirt with her as well, mostly for Ratchet's amusement. Occasionally the engineer would adorn her with something pretty and leave her lying in Ratchet's berth or posed suggestively atop his desk.

Later, when a newly arrived special-ops agent was in Ratchet's office on some errand, he was immediately drawn to Citrine and stared at her, wanting to know how Ratchet had come by the lovely frame.

"Eh, she was a present to me," he told the blue and white mech.

"A gift?! Someone gave her to you?" He was stunned.

"Yep. I saved a spark and did a lot of repair work for some guys a couple of vorns ago. They insisted that I have her as payment."

The agent turned back to look at the pretty thing, who was currently sitting upon one of the industrial shelving units in Ratchet's office. "She's one of Halcyon's creations. He was one of the finest framers in Iacon. This..." he moved forward and traced his finger down one of the glassy bands of enamel atop her plating. "This is his signature work. Others copied it but no one could match it. And you have an unused frame of his here...?" He looked over at the medic, who sat smiling lazily with his feet upon his desk. "You probably have no idea how much it's worth, do you?" His accent betrayed an upbringing in the Towers.

"It's worth the gratitude of the mechs who gave it to me," he grinned.

"Have anything special in mind for her?" the mech asked curiously. He gently ran his thumb across her cheek as if to brush away a tear.

"Eh... dunno. Maybe someday I'll have a use for it."

"If you ever decide to sell it, let me know. I _was_ on Halcyon's waiting list... but the war changed things."

"A new frame for yourself or for someone else?"

The blue and white mech only smiled enigmatically.

-o-o-o-o-o-

-o-o-o-

-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 5: "Prelude"**

-o-

-o-o-o-

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Author Notes:**

 **Citrine's Packaging** – I tried to envision how such a valuable thing as her would arrive at a purchaser's home. In the end I decided she was much like an old-fashioned luxury doll, arriving in an outer box and an inner box designed to be kept. Those of you who've opened modern doll packages, know of the ties that keep the doll nicely positioned within the inner box, so I had to add them in as well.

 **White Elephant** – Citrine really is a white elephant for the toshers... too valuable to keep, and during the war it's going to be hard to find a buyer for her. I can see them giving the frame to Ratchet in hopes that he could make use of her. And yes, as easily as they could have sold her to Blastshield, they'd made their mind up to be as generous to the mech as he'd been to them. Besides, if they'd sold her to Blastshield, there'd not be much of this story left.

 **Madame Ratchet** – I can so easily envision Wheeljack's treatment of the empty frame and the fun he might have posing her about Ratchet's home and workspace. And the identity of the blue and white mech is pretty darn obvious, though I'll leave it up to the reader to decide upon his intent regarding obtaining one of Halcyon's frames.

-o-o-o-o-o-

And please give my other TF stories a look over as well:

 **Grapple's Choice** – Grapple/Hoist  & Grapple/OC gestalt

 **The Broken Camera** – Red Alert/Sideswipe (pre-Red Alert/Inferno)

 **Pet Canary** – Rosanna/Scrapper  & Rosanna/Soundwave

 **Stung** – Bumblebee/Carly  & Bumblebee/Everyone

 **Sunset Dreams** \- Jetfire/Swoop

 **Closer Than Ever Before** – Soundwave/Ravage

The **Wayward** Series (four stories) – Humorous misunderstandings between mechs and humans

-o-o-o-o-o-


	5. Prelude

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 5: Prelude**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Citrine was feeling exhausted amongst other things. How many times was the Prime going to take her? He'd overloaded three times already and was well on his way to the fourth, and yet showed no sign of tiring or becoming sated. At the rate he was going, it would be about twelve before her shift in the medbay the next morning. Currently he had her kneeling on one of the large chairs in his quarters, her arms wrapped around the back of it, her legs spread apart and her aft angled outward for access. He'd seen Megatron spiking Starscream in the same position atop Megatron's throne. The difference was that the Autobot commander moved smoothly and gently, whereas Megatron had been generating sparks as metal collided with metal at every unpleasant thrust.

She stared across the room at the berth where they'd been not all that long ago, a disarray of cushions and a transfluid spill attesting to what had happened there. Citrine focused on the spill, the thick silvery fluid oozing down the edge of the berth and dripping to the floor. He'd probably make her clean it up afterwards, just to add insult to injury. It was degrading enough that her favors had been given away in a game of cards, but to have to tidy up after having just been raped... Ratchet and Wheeljack always made her clean up afterward; though justifiably, cleaning up the quarters the three of them shared was part of her duties.

A deep rumbling from inside the prime's chest signaled that the sexual charge within him had grown to near-overload levels, and Citrine braced herself for the oncoming finishing thrusts, which as she'd learned would be significantly stronger and harder than the others. After tonight, the usual romp in the berth with Ratchet would seem like a relaxing evening.

And when Optimus overloaded, he gripped her tightly and pulled her against his heaving frame, howling as the massive charge released, his huge hand wrapping around her slender midriff. His other hand held her head and throat.

Citrine bit down on her lip, trying not to scream despite the fact that no sound would come out. He could probably feel her reaction, and she wouldn't give the Autobot leader the satisfaction of a response. And she succeeded... mostly. His angle changed halfway through the climax and she couldn't help but cry out mutely as his spike stroked fiercely against a set of sensory nodes that had surprisingly gone unmolested by him so far.

Optimus crumpled slightly forward as the last of the overload played out, the great mech moaning and shuddering as the pump deep inside his groin squeezed out the last bit of transfluid from the reservoir. His knee came up to brace himself against the seat of the chair. His hand still curled about her midriff, supporting her now as she'd gone limp, having overloaded herself this time.

She'd been determined not to—so determined not to enjoy a single moment of it. It was bad enough when the moody CMO and the loose-screw engineer decided to tag team her and see how quickly they could break her resistance with pleasure and turn her into a quivering, strutless mess—and they always won in the end, to her embarrassment. But this was the Autobot leader—the Matrix Bearer, the Favored One, the Torch of Hope.

And now she hung pathetically in his grip, his spike still twitching inside of her, the femme sobbing in disgust at her defeat in the berth.

To her surprise, when Optimus eventually withdrew, he lifted her, sat on the chair himself, and then sat her in his lap, cradling her gently. "Finally," he said softly. "I wondered how long it would take to break you."

If she'd not been voiceless, she would have bitterly hissed that he'd not broken her. But all she could do was to wipe away her tears and glower defiantly at him.

His head cocked slightly to the side and he chuckled slightly. "Ever resistant. You'd make a good Autobot," he chuckled.

Not caring what Optimus did or what Ratchet would do later either, she lashed out, slapping him across the battle-mask. And when she went to strike again, he caught her hand and pressed it to her side. "There's no need for that," he said, unphased by the attack. And to her surprise he lowered his mask, revealing the face she'd never seen before.

He studied her for a while, optics roving her features, and then to her surprise he pulled her close and placed a tender kiss upon her lips. But when he did so again, she resisted, turning her face to the side so that his mouth found her jawline instead. Instead of pressing the matter, Optimus rose, carrying her to the door opposite the berthroom's entrance. "Let's wash you up. I want you nice and clean for what comes next."

It was no surprise that behind the door was a washroom with a rack large enough to handle someone of twice his size. And he carried her into the rack, set her down, turned the water on, and began to bathe her. To her embarrassment, he drew out the hose and began to wash her thoroughly inside and out, flushing every drop of his transfluid out of her seams and valve, following with soap, and then with a hot rinse. At least Ratchet allowed her the dignity of bathing herself.

Worse yet, when Optimus finally decreed her clean and told her to step out and dry off, there was Jazz, standing in the doorway to the washroom with a huge towel in his hands. Just beyond him was Prowl, standing with his arms crossed over his waist. Both looked frighteningly smug.

-o-o-o-o-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 6: "A Rude Awakening"**

-o-o-o-o-o-

Thank you for reading!


	6. A Rude Awakening

**Thundercracker's Fate**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 **Chapter 6: A Rude Awakening**

-o-o-o-o-o-

"So, you had this femme's frame, and you just put me into it," Thundercracker bawled.

"Yep!" beamed Wheeljack. "And it's a pretty one too."

Hoist helped the Decepticon into a sitting position. "Very pretty," he said with a hint of a sigh to his voice.

"Why? Why not just let me die?!" Thundercracker snarled.

"Because there's a lot of information locked up inside of you that we could use," Ratchet snarled back, poking at Thundercracker's new chest. "And our guys need you operational in order to hack you."

Thundercracker glared. This was bad. Whoever thought the Autobots were a bunch of do-gooders with noble motives had been swallowing their propaganda whole.

"So, once we know you've completely stabilized, we're taking you up to our security chief so he can have some fun with you," Ratchet explained.

Their security chief? The Autobot security chief? Red Alert?

Primus... Not that guy.

Thundercracker cringed. Starscream had talked all about the unstable and emotional head of security after a semi-successful attempt to seduce the mech to his private cause. He'd managed to get the beautiful glitchy thing under his command and even into his berth, and even had him orchestrate stealing the Autobots' latest weapon. But at the last moment Red Alert had panicked when cornered by both Megatron and Optimus Prime, and had destroyed the weapon rather than let it fall into either's hands.

"Ratchet, you should be the one to have a bit of fun with her first," giggled Wheeljack as he put his hands on Citrine's legs and suddenly jerked her thighs apart.

Thundercracker gasped indignantly and snapped the legs back together, noting as he did how long and slender the thighs were.

Wheeljack patted those thighs teasingly. "Hey, Ratchet's been waiting a long, long time for this," cackled the inventor.

Hoist gently pushed Wheeljack away, a bit more concerned for the poor mech. "The usage seals on the frame are all still intact, except for the main medical port ones. Had to pull those for the spark transference process," the doctor explained.

A brand new body? They'd put him into a pristine frame?

Ratchet gave a snort of amusement. "And yet after all this time I'm still not in any hurry. I can wait until after Red's done with her. I'd like to take my time and savor it once my long awaited dream finally arrives."

Thundercracker moaned. Between Red Alert's hacking and Ratchet's desires, this was going to be nothing but bad for him.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Thundercracker spent the next several days fastened to a wall somewhere in the Ark, a multitude of cables and datalines connected to him, every one of them leeching away data and memories as the Autobots' security chief pillaged his processors and opened his memory banks.

Starscream had fondly described Red Alert as a 'wanton little slut' who could barely keep his hands off of him, but he certainly did not match that description now. The grounder, though definitely as attractive as Starscream had told them, seemed to want only to extract as much information as possible as each firewall was broken down. What Thundercracker had expected to be hours of fondling and perhaps a fragging or two or twenty were all spent with relatively little physical contact. And while Red Alert did seem a touch paranoid, he was definitely neither glitchy nor emotionally unstable. He went about his work with meticulous precision, his visage cold and unfeeling, his duty consuming him. The only time he smiled was when a large red mech named Inferno happened in, bringing him fuel and mineral goodies and admonishing him to get some rest. They had to be lovers, for the red mech would tease him about wanting to spend more time with the pretty femme attached to the wall than in his berth. And then he'd tease that perhaps Red Alert found the brig wall just as comfortable as a berth. The security officer would deny it, and even insist that Thundercracker confirm his fidelity.

On the other hand, Jazz, the head of special-ops assisting occasionally with the hacking, seemed quite eager to get his hands on more than just the information the seeker could divulge. Jazz did pay heed to the frame they'd put Thundercracker into, occasionally admiring it with his visored gaze or with probing fingers. 'Checking connections' became both a euphemism and an excuse to grope.

Ratchet would appear twice during the sidereal day to provide the captive with a small serving of energon and to check that the victim remained medically sound. Other Autobots would come to gawk at the lovely form spread against the wall and whisper to each other.

'Citrine' they called this frame. A slender femme pleasurebot for all he could tell. Devoid of an alternate mode. Devoid of any defenses. Devoid of any weaponry or anything practical. She was all looks and beauty—a thing of grace designed to be pleasing to the senses, to live the sheltered life of a pet or a concubine. She was the antithesis of war, the antithesis of Decepticon might.

All in all, it was terribly humiliating for Thundercracker. He was torn between wanting his faction to suddenly burst in and rescue him from the impending fate, and between wanting to pass away into an anonymous oblivion, lost in yet another unfortunate battle with the enemy.

But instead nothing changed. He stayed attached to the wall feeling Red Alert crawl though his being and his self-esteem failing to hold up to the treatment. Jazz groped. Skyfire looked at him with pity. The others looked at him with lust. Optimus Prime just stared, cold and unfeeling to the plight the prisoner had been subjected to.

In time, Thundercracker decided that it would be for the best if he just passed away.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Four days after awakening permanently, Red Alert declared his work finished. Hoist came in, checked over the femme's frame and vital signs and then released her from the wall. Skyfire appeared next, swept her up into his huge arms, and Citrine was delivered back to Ratchet somewhere in the depths of the Ark.

It wasn't the medbay she was taken to but apparently the CMO's quarters, where Ratchet and Wheeljack were waiting. "Welcome back, Citrine," Ratchet said as Skyfire carried the exhausted Decepticon to some large padded bench within a sitting area at the side of the room.

The shuttle-former deposited her gracefully, helped her to sit, and knelt for a moment to look her over. "Need anything else, Ratchet?"

"Nope. Thank you, Skyfire," the CMO replied.

The jet nodded and left, at which point Ratchet came over and began examining the still trembling frame. "Welcome to your new home, Citrine," he said confidently, his fingers and optics exploring to search for damage that might have occurred during the last day of Red Alert's process. The Autobot medical staff was thorough if nothing else.

"My name is Thundercracker, and this isn't my home," came a growled response, the last vestiges of defiance rising despite the horror and humiliation of what he'd been through so far in the grasp of the enemy.

"Thundercracker is dead," Ratchet replied matter-of-factly. "Your name is Citrine. My property under Iaconian salvage law and the slavery laws of Kaon."

"I am still Thundercracker," he huffed with as much venom as he could muster.

Ratchet sighed dramatically and cupped the femme's chin in his hand. "Poor thing. Didn't you hear the news? Thundercracker was demolished in battle two weeks ago. He was shot down, stepped on by Superion, and further crushed when Menasor fell on top of him. The Decepticons saw he was dead and left him behind. You..." At this point Ratchet put his finger to Citrine's chest. "...you are Citrine, the playmate of Ratchet, chief medical officer of the Autobots. You've belonged to me since the Autobot raid on the Port of Kaon. Isn't that right, Wheeljack."

The engineer nodded. "Fine bit of booty we ended up with that day."

"You can't do this to me! It's against the laws!" came the protest.

Ratchet's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the femme harshly by the throat. "Laws? A Decepticon admonishing me about the laws?" he snarled.

Thundercracker brought up his hands and tried to free himself from the medic's strong grip but found his attempt completely futile. "You have to return me to Megatron, either in a prisoner trade or of your own good will. I've given you what you want. They hacked me. They got what I knew," he cried in Citrine's sweet, almost musical voice. It was half of the truth. Thundercracker had found he was still able to dump some of his memory, tossing most of the past two meta-cycles to the wind. The Autobots had his old memories, but they'd not get any critical information about Megatron's current plans.

"I'm not returning you to Megatron. You're mine now," Ratchet retorted, his usually non-threatening demeanor breaking down as his hand tightened its grip.

"You're hurting me," Thundercracker cried.

"Submit. Swear you'll submit."

"Let go of me! I only take orders from Lord Megatron and Starscream!"

Ratchet's grip tightened further. "Submit. Swear you'll serve me."

"I'll only serve the Decepticon cause," spat the defiant voice.

Ratchet's other hand gripped Citrine's slender neck, yanked her to the floor, and squeezed tighter.

"Whoa... Ratchet," Wheeljack choked. "Ease up a little." He could see the metal of Citrine's neckplates beginning to bend inwards where the medic held her.

Thundercracker had managed a kneeling position on the floor now, still clutching helplessly at Ratchet's arms. "You're hurting me..."

"Swear you'll serve me, or I'll rip your processors right back out of that pretty little frame I put them into and toss them right into the smelter chutes!"

Wheeljack was stunned. It had been quite a while since he'd seen Ratchet resort to such extreme measures.

"I... I will."

The medic released his prisoner, and the amber frame collapsed to the rug. "What's your name?" Ratchet demanded in a low tone.

What was left of Thundercracker glared up at him in defiance, but the perfect pink lips parted and said "Citrine."

Thundercracker stifled a sob. He'd used his slave name.

"Good! Don't forget it!" Ratchet stepped away, poured a glass of high-grade from a decanter on a side-table, and drank it quickly. "This is your new home now. Wheeljack and I share these quarters, and you are to serve both of us," he said in a much calmer tone of voice.

Citrine winced. What would the 'service' entail?

Ratchet was looking her up and down again. "You're a mess. Let's get you cleaned up next."

The CMO showed her to a small private washrack in an adjacent room, obviously retrofitted at some point after the crash of the Ark. "You can shower here, and here's a towel." He grabbed one from a stack on a shelf nearby and shoved it into her hands. "When you're done cleaning up, come out and I'll have some proper energon for you."

And to Citrine's surprise he simply turned around and left, leaving her behind with the expectation that she would wash herself. It was the first time since coming on-line that she'd been alone.

For a moment her eyes darted around the room, and found a second door, but also quickly discovered that it looked welded shut. Testing it proved so. The vents in the ceiling were far too small to climb into, and the floor was more or less a solid sheet broken only by the drain beneath the showerhead and the drain beneath the sink area. She sighed. Even if she did manage to get out of the room, there was still the Ark to escape. And even if she managed to escape it, how would she return to the Nemesis. On foot? She'd found absolutely nothing regarding an alt-mode. The only form of added mobility this frame seemed to possess were a pair of 'stepladder' anti-gravity units in the heels. Those were great for getting things down off upper shelves or for embracing a larger mech. But they'd certainly not get her back to Decepticon territory.

She found that she did have a communications radio, but discovered it locked to all but three frequencies. One was labeled 'Ratchet' and one was labeled 'Wheeljack.' The third was labeled 'general emergency.' Looking at the specific data, she found it to be the general Autobot distress frequency.

Sighing, she slumped to the floor. She could trash the washroom, but what good would it do but to vent a bit of anger. And such would probably bring consequences from the temperamental medic. And then they'd probably make her clean it up afterwards. There was no way she could overpower either of them, and then there would still be the rest of the Ark to navigate without being caught. Nothing in the small room would do for a weapon.

Admitting defeat she rose, turned on the water, and began to shower. At least she'd feel a bit better once the dirt and transfluid smears had been washed away.

-o-o-o-o-o-

After showering, drying off, and giving her plating a quick waxing Citrine walked timidly back into Ratchet's quarters. While still a prisoner, she did feel a bit better. Of course most anything was better than being attached to the wall of the brig while the security officer violated her processors.

And instead of glaring, the CMO was smiling at her from the table where he sat with the mad engineer. "Ah, Citrine, come join us."

Wheeljack even stood and pulled out the third chair that had been placed for her. "You look lovely," he complimented her.

"Thank you," she responded bitterly, glaring at her keepers.

Ratchet let the comment slide and she sat down with the others, where a cube of energon waited for her. But as she picked it up, Ratchet snapped his hand onto the top of it. "Give thanks to Primus first," he said in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Citrine glared. Primus had not delivered this cube. The humans probably had. "I don't pray to Primus."

"You do now. Say the prayer of thanksgiving, and you can't tell me that you don't know it."

Citrine was too hungry to argue. She placed her hands against her chest and leaned forward in a little bow. "All thanks be to Primus for bestowing his light upon us and giving us the blessings of his creations. We praise him for sustaining our sparks and frames with the benevolence of his will. May peace be ours."

Ratchet smiled again. "Very good. You may drink now."

Thankfully neither of the Autobots interfered with her fueling, but when she finished Ratchet rose. "It's our time to recharge now. I need a regular six cycles each night, and you will help me see to it that I get it."

"What?!" Citrine squawked.

"You heard me. I know those audials work perfectly well."

"This way, Citrine," Wheeljack chuckled, opening a door that had so far remained ignored, and Ratchet herded her through it.

Beyond the door was a berthroom, neither large nor luxurious, occupied only by a large berth and a row of storage closets. There were two pillows and two spread-open thermal blankets on the bed.

"I'm not recharging with you!" Citrine protested.

"Yes you are. I don't like sleeping alone, so get in."

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. "I'll sleep on the floor."

The medic leveled his gaze at her. "Citrine, now. It's time to recharge."

"Never!" she hissed. Maybe he owned her frame and had become his slave, but she wasn't about to let him frag her.

"In! Now!"

This time when Citrine hesitated, Ratchet slapped her rump and shoved her in the right direction. "Get in!" he demanded.

The mad engineer came up behind her, placing one hand onto her shoulder. "Please Citrine," he pleaded. "Do as he asks. It will make things a lot easier in the long run."

She looked at Wheeljack and shook her head again. "Never!"

"Citrine. Please. I know you've had a rough time here. But it will get easier from now on."

She huffed. "Then you sleep with him!"

Ratchet had meanwhile pulled back the covers and lain himself on the far side of the thick padding.

"Fine," sighed Wheeljack. And with that he simply swept her off her feet and placed her onto the berth.

Citrine struggled, but both mechs held onto her. This was it. Ratchet was going to rape her while Wheeljack held her down. There was nothing she could do now. She ceased her struggle and lay still, tears beginning to form in her optics.

She'd given herself a thorough examination in the washrack and had found that the dark green doctor had not lied to her. Her valve was still factory sealed. Thundercracker had lost his inner seals so long ago that she couldn't even remember what it had been like to have them in the first place, so it shouldn't have meant anything. But now she felt a curious attachment to the unbroken, untouched state of this frame, as if that intactness were something to guard.

Wheeljack pulled the blanket up over her and checked the placement of the pillow beneath Citrine's head. "Goodnight you two. And Citrine, things will seem a lot better once you've gotten some rest."

"He's right. You'll feel better in the morning. Set your alarm for 0700 local time," instructed the medic. "That's when we're getting up."

Wheeljack reached down to stroke her forehead, and she could swear he was smiling beneath that ugly mask of his. "Goodnight you two." He moved for the door, but then paused in the jamb. "Hey Ratch... So nice to see you've finally got your Madame Ratchet," he grinned. "Comm' me if you need me. I'm just in the next room."

Wheeljack departed as Ratchet settled in against Citrine. "Goodnight, darling. Our first night together," he said quietly as his arm encircled her waist. "Tomorrow we'll start getting you trained on what we want done around here."

The lights in the room suddenly switched off, all except a small lamp upon a counter to the side, which appeared to be a glowing orangey-pink rock of some sort.

The medic shuffled again and pressed his lips to the side of Citrine's helm with a tender kiss. "Goodnight Mrs. Ratchet," he said. Moments later his systems all shifted their rhythms as he dropped into recharge.

Citrine stilled, shocked at what had just happened.

That was it? He wasn't going to force himself upon her? He wasn't even going to grope her frame? And now he was just lying there so innocently asleep with his arm over her?

Citrine's mind raced again. How could the Autobot allow himself to be so vulnerable? And how could he trust her not to kill him in the night?

She could escape now. The door was just at the foot of the bed. The room beyond led to the corridor outside. From there she could...

No. She couldn't escape. There were too many mechs out there. Too many cameras. Too many passages. And if she even managed to escape the Ark, how would she get back to the Nemesis? There were no jets. There was no alt-mode.

She felt... handicapped—trapped by the frame Thundercracker had been put into.

With a sigh, she offlined her optics. The nutcase had been right. She would feel better after she'd gotten some rest. There would be tomorrow to start planning an escape.

-o-o-o-o-o-

" **Thundercracker's Fate" continues in Chapter 7: "The Dinobots"**

-o-o-o-o-o-

 _Transformers_ and all related concepts, characters, worlds, and events are property of Hasbro and Takara Tomy. Original characters and story elements are property of E. Potter, writing under the pen name of Miratete.

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-o-o-o-o-o-


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